“I am Lady Rose Summer,” said Rose. She quickly noticed her name meant nothing to Mrs Jones. “We are sorry we upset you. My companion, Miss Levine. May we join you? We do not know this area.”
“Please,” said Mrs Jones, looking flustered and delighted at the same time. She would tell her friends that an aristocratic and beautiful young lady had joined her for tea.
Rose signalled to the waitress to bring their tea things over. She smiled charmingly at Mrs Jones. “Have you lived in Notting Hill for long?”
“Only for a few years,” she said shyly. She spoke in a sort of strangled voice as if she was trying to kill any trace of a Cockney accent.
“The waitress said your husband is the haberdasher.”
“Yes. I thought you were watching the shop.”
Rose smiled. “Now why should that bother you?”
“It’s my husband. He’s ever such a suspicious man. It’s all come on him lately. He jumps at shadows.”
“Perhaps too much work?” suggested Rose.
“It shouldn’t be. He’s got plenty of staff.”
“I was supposed to meet my fiancé for lunch,” sighed Rose. “But he is always so busy. He is a private detective. My parents think that is a terribly common thing to be. He does have some fascinating cases, however. He is looking into the death of Dolores Duval.”
“I read about that in the newspapers,” said Mrs Jones. “But they’ve got someone for it.”
“Yes, her brother, Jeffrey Biles. But he hanged himself. Dolores was originally Betty Biles from Whitechapel.”
Mrs Jones suddenly bent her head. Rose realized with a jolt of shock that she was crying.
“My dear Mrs Jones. I do not want to upset you.”
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she raised her head. “It’s my husband, Mr Jones. He used to talk about her the whole time. Then when he found out she’d become no better than she should be, he got bitter about it.”
“He did not have any contact with Jeffrey Biles, did he?” asked Rose.
Mrs Jones jumped to her feet, knocking her teacup over. She ran for the door.
The waitress had been watching them avidly and she now hurried over to clean the spilled tea from the table.
“Now what do we do?” asked Daisy.
“The steam has cleared from the windows. We’ll watch the shop again. I want to see what kind of man he is.”
They moved back to their original seat.
Rose looked at her fob watch. “It is nearly lunch-time. Look, that must be our Mr Jones.”
A tall thin man had emerged from the shop. He was holding Mrs Jones tightly by the arm. She was crying as he hustled her off down the street.
“As she had read about the case in the newspapers, it’s a wonder she did not recognize my name,” said Rose. “What did you make of him?”
“He’s a lot older than his wife,” said Daisy. “But he’s got a sort of weak face. I can’t imagine him murdering anyone.”
“I wonder how Harry is getting on,” said Rose, “because I can’t really think of what we can do here now.”
♦
Armed with a letter from Kerridge, Harry went to Pentonville Prison to interview the guard who had been on duty at the estimated time of Jeffrey’s suicide.
He was told that the guard, Joseph Carver, had not come in for work. Harry saw the governor and got Carver’s address.
“Whitechapel,” he said to Becket when he came out of the prison. “All roads lead to Whitechapel. Our guard did not show up for work. His address is 5 Gerald Street.”
London had been for a long time the home of the persecuted and exiled. Whitechapel was largely the refuge of European Jews. They brought a bustling energy and life to the area, but there were still pockets where the English residents staved in filth and dirt, ground down by lives of poverty. Gerald Street was a narrow cavern flanked on both sides by dingy tenements.
“The smell is awful,” said Harry. “Why don’t they wash?”
“In what?” asked Becket. “They haven’t any baths and the public baths cost money.”
Becket stayed to guard the car while Harry mounted the stairs of number 5. Names were scrawled in plaster at the side of the doors. Halfway up the stairs, he made out the name ‘Carver’.
He knocked on the door. Nearby a baby wailed, a caged linnet sang, and a man shouted something unintelligible. Harry knocked again. No reply.
He turned away. Then he turned back and tried the door handle. The door was not locked. He moved cautiously inside, calling, “Mr Carver?”
A blanket was hanging over the window, leaving the room in darkness.
Harry edged towards the window and pulled the blanket down. He turned round and surveyed the room. It had very little furniture. There was an armchair in front of the fireplace. Harry realized with a shock that he could see the top of a man’s head.
Must have fallen asleep, he thought. He walked round the front of the armchair and stared down in horror. Carver – and surely it must be Carver – had had his throat slit. His clothes were matted with blood.
Harry went quickly to the window which overlooked the street and threw it up. He called down to Becket, “Get the police here as fast as you can.”
Harry was wearing gloves and so he decided to do a search of the room. There was little to search. He found a box of photographs – Carver with other prison guards on some sort of outing – and a birth certificate.
The bed was in a recess. Harry slid his hands under the mattress and pulled out a wad of five-pound notes.
♦
The police arrived first, followed later by Kerridge himself. “I would like to get out of here,” said Harry. “Can I make my statement at the Yard? I’ve already told the police I found a wad of fivers under the mattress.”
“Did you find a weapon? Looks like it’s been done by a razor.”
“No, but he may have thrown it away outside – down a drain in the street.”
“We’ll get to it.”
“I’ll go downstairs and wait in the motor.” Harry ran down the stairs and gulped down fresh air outside before climbing into the car beside Becket.
He told Becket what had happened. “I hope my Daisy is behaving herself,” said Becket, looking worried. “We thought it was all over and finished, but it’s beginning to look as if the murderer is still out there.”
“He may have bribed the guard. That would explain the money under the mattress.”
They waited a long time. Finally Kerridge emerged. “I think we’ll pull in this Mr Jones for questioning. He may have nothing at all to do with us, but I’d like to see what he’s like.”
“I’ll meet you at Scotland Yard,” said Harry. “I would like to see him for myself.”
“Can’t do that,” said Kerridge. “I’ll get a rocket for letting an amateur into a police interrogation. I’ll telephone you and let you know how I get on. If you want to get away, you can call at the Yard tomorrow and we’ll take your statement there.”
♦
Mrs Blenkinsop, a society widow, had recently moved to a splendid house in Park Lane.
Lady Polly’s face was plastered with white make-up. The de-tanning cream had only removed the brown in patches. “Who would have thought a Cairo tanning would last so long?” she mourned. “That is the trouble with middle-aged skin. Now I want you to be particularly charming to young Roger. A great catch.”
Rose hoped Harry would be there. Then her heart sank as she remembered all the evenings in the past when they were officially engaged and he had failed to turn up. Her finger hurt. Her mother had ordered a jeweller to come round to the house and take the offending engagement ring off. It now resided in the depths of Rose’s jewel box.
She missed Daisy’s cheerful company. Rose was wearing a white chiffon gown with long lace sleeves and a lace panel at the front. On her head she wore a tiara of pearls. As she climbed down from the carriage, her taffeta and silk petticoats rustled. That rustle, thought Rose bitterly, was supposed to be seductive, but what was the point of appearing seductive if the very man one hoped to charm was not likely to attend?